


Into the Crypts

by darkstark



Series: True North [2]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Ramsay is his own warning, Violence, Wedding, Winterfell
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-22
Updated: 2015-10-27
Packaged: 2018-04-27 15:44:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,363
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5054500
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/darkstark/pseuds/darkstark
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"It was a horrible thing that they were doing, immoral and unladylike on her part, but in the darkness where she could not meet his gaze, it was easier to ignore these thoughts."</p><p>Three times Petyr follows Sansa into the crypts of Winterfel. </p><p>A continuation to "Under the Heart Tree", but can be read separately as well.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. In darkness

**Author's Note:**

> Some of you seemed interested to see a continuation to Under the Heart Tree, and here it is with much delay. It is not nearly as intelligent or well planned as I wanted it to be, but I had fun writing it all the same. I hope you like it!

The first time she had visited the crypts of Winterfell after her return, Petyr had followed her there. It had been a somber affair, to finally be back at her birthplace, her rightful seat, and to be able to pay her respects to her dead, even in this concealed way. Petyr had not bothered her. He followed her quietly, almost with respect (what a strange word to attach to him!) and had only spoken when she lit a candle for Lyanna, telling her the story of the tournament in Harrenhal, where Raegar Targaryen crowned Lyanna his Queen of Love and Beauty, and then abducted her, effectively starting Robert’s Rebellion. She thought he was amused by the fact that now he owned the place where a war had started, but mostly he seemed intrigued by the fact that a single act could have such devastating results. An inspiration to him perhaps? She was intrigued too, she had to admit, or else she would never have agreed to return to this place full of ghosts and traitors. She was intrigued by him too, taking his lessons to heart, watching and listening eagerly. At King’s Landing she had been a mouse, small and quiet, merely trying to survive. But in the Vale she had learned that there could be more than survival; there could be revenge, and triumph. And so, even though it came as a surprise when he told her he would leave her alone with the Boltons, she had managed to wave it off with a playful smile she had never used on a man before, and told him she expected to be a married woman before she saw him again. He had smiled at that, at her easy consent to his devious plans, and had given her a chaste kiss on the lips, almost like a proud parent. She had only been to Winterfell for a short while then. She had not come to know yet that Ramsay was different than Joffrey only in the ways that made him worst. Sometimes she had wondered if Petyr knew. Most of the times she thought she didn’t want to find out.

*** 

The face carved on the bark of the weirwood tree looked contracted in a fearful scream, blood-like tears of sap running from its eyes, as if it had seen too many horrors. It was grotesque.

 _How fitting. There is nothing more grotesque than what it has to witness here,_ Sansa thought and shivered, involuntarily drawing her body closer to Petyr. The last time she had been here it was to seduce him.

The cold evening smelled strongly of the winter to come, a few snowflakes brightening the dull light of the Godswood. Petyr was next to her, but they were not alone. All the lords of the North who had not sided with Stannis were here too, to bear witness to this farce. _Her_ liege lords, if blood mattered more than brute force. But it didn’t. Their faces were grave, hardened by the harshness of the North, their bodies buried under heavy cloaks and furs. They stood in a thick throng under the blood-red foliage of the Heart Tree, parted in the middle to create a path leading to the spot where Ramsay and his father were standing. Sansa shivered under the fine white wool of her wedding dress, and her fingernails dug on Petyr’s arm. He said nothing, but placed his free hand on hers, a small reassurance. She took a deep breath, and made the first step and the second, Petyr following her pace. Her eyes were holding back tears, but she wasn’t trying too hard to hide them. _Let them see you,_ Petyr had said. _Let them feel angry and ashamed of themselves for not protecting you, for not pledging their swords to you._

That was the third time he had followed her to the crypts, she remembered, as she stepped opposite to her husband-to-be, Petyr still firmly by her side. He had the honour and duty to give her away, as he was by law her closest relative now. In a way it was true and right, she thought. It was everything else that was wrong, from Roose Bolton’s dead eyes, to the other lords’ apparent apathy and the cold, smug glint on Ramsay’s pale eyes.

“Who comes here before the old gods?” Roose Bolton asked in his steady, colorless voice. It was quiet, but it carried because the Godswood was even quieter, as if it knew that something strange and sinful was going to happen.

“Sansa of the House Stark” she heard Petyr reply as if in a dream, his voice louder than Roose’s and coated with that hint of sarcasm and self-importance she had come to know so well.

He had not sounded like this when he had followed her down to the crypts that second time.

***

His footsteps were the first thing she heard, and they had sounded cautious and restrained in her ears. Perhaps it was the darkness or the unfamiliar surroundings, but Sansa thought there was an uncertainty there that was quite unlike his nature. She smiled to herself and continued walking a little bit further into the tunnel before she decided to acknowledge his presence.

“The day is awfully good to spend it in such a dark and dreary place” she said quietly, but in a conversational tone. 

“Perhaps, but the crypts of Winterfell seem to be the only walls in the realm that don’t have ears” Petyr said.

“Oh? Are we going to tell each other secrets?” Sansa asked, and finally turned to look at him.

He was standing closer than she had thought. The light coming from the tallow candle he was holding gave his face a sinister appearance, making his eyes look darker and his features sharper than they really were. The only other source of light was her own taper, and so the rest of him was hidden in the gloom. He didn’t answer to her question, but his thin lips curled into his usual smirk. She turned away again and continued to walk past the statues of Starks, and she could hear him following her.

“I take it you come here often?” she heard him ask.

“It is the one place I can be by myself. No one dares to come down here; no one cares either.” She answered absentmindedly and came to a sudden halt. Behind her, she heard Petyr’s breath hitch. He had almost stumbled on her.

“Lady’s bones are buried here” she said solemnly. Petyr stood by her side, looking at the simple plaque that was set on the ground. 

“Cersei wanted her killed in the place of my sister’s direwolf. My father did it himself; he said the Lannister woman wouldn’t get _this_ skin. And then he sent her bones back here, to be where she belonged. Strange, isn’t it? Lady is here, but no one knows where my father’s bones are. I think Tyrion had them sent to my mother after we married, but…” her voice trailed off. She wasn’t sure why she had told Petyr all this. He was not supposed to be here.

“Cersei’s punishments have already started. Your other enemies are standing just above us, waiting to be punished too” he said smoothly, and his voice sounded ominous as it bounced on the cold stone.

“And then I will be Wardeness of the North” Sansa murmured, hardly believing it. _Like my father._

“Yes; a worthy descendant of… our present company” Petyr said, a hint of humor in his words.

Sansa looked around at the gloomy, imposing figures. Harsh men set on harsh stone, men of great deeds, of courage and honor and integrity. And she…

“I don’t - I don’t know if I could ever be their equal” she said, and she hated herself for letting him see her weakness. Petyr tutted, and it crossed her mind just then, that he might not hold the Starks in such great esteem.

“On the contrary, sweetling. I think you will be the greatest of them all” Petyr said, his voice but a whisper. He was suddenly very close, too close, and his free hand came to rest to the small of her back.

_Ah._

The touch sent a jolt up her spine and made the blood rush to her cheeks, but she forced herself to look him in the eye. She tried to keep her face expressionless, while her heart fluttered in an excited triumph. She had caught Petyr’s furtive glances at dinner last night and at breakfast this morning, curious and intrigued, and she had wondered if he would pursue another meeting with her. 

His look was steady, drinking in her features openly. His hand moved smoothly up her spine, making little sparks erupt in its wake. It finally came to rest on her neck, hiding under her copper red locks, and his lips curled into a smirk again when his cold fingertips touched the hot skin just over the collar of her dress. They stood still for a long moment, and she thought he must hear the loud drumming of her heart in the silence of the crypts. Then he leaned in without a warning, his lips finding hers and fitting with ease, and she couldn’t help the soft moan that escaped her lips, humming on his. To this he seemed to become bolder, drawing her body closer to his, and the sudden proximity took her by surprise. She dropped the candle she was holding, and her arms wrapped themselves around him as if of their own accord. Her eyes closed and her lips parted, allowing his soft, inquisitive tongue to meet hers. The taste of mint came to greet her, and its freshness felt familiar in the most reassuring way. She wrapped herself more tightly around him, and she felt him responding, their bodies dancing a strange dance in their battle for balance. After a few uncertain steps, she felt cold stone on her back, and there they stopped, free now to enjoy the kiss undisrupted. It was slow, yet deep, certain and without the maddened urgency of the kisses they had shared in the Godswood. Sansa felt lost in it, enjoying the closeness and the still strange heat that had started pooling between her thighs since Petyr put his hand on her back.

When the kiss broke, she opened her eyes, but there was only darkness. Somehow Petyr’s candle had managed to continue burning even though it had also been dropped unceremoniously, but its flame was weak and all she could see were Petyr’s faint figure and the glint of his darkened eyes. She let a deep breath out and felt, rather than saw Petyr leaning down. She thought he might pick up his candle, but her heart skipped a beat when she felt a tug on the hem of her dress. There was a ruffling sound and a gust of cold wind caressed her ankles. Petyr was lifting her skirts, one hand on each leg sliding up languidly. She felt her skin forming gooseflesh at his touch, even though she was wearing very thick woolen stockings, and once his hands had reached the part where the fabric gave way to the naked skin, his fingers dug in her flesh, making her weak in the knees. Another small moan escaped her lips and once again it seemed to spur him on, now planting a trail of kisses down the curve of her neck. Sansa smiled, pleased that she could also have some power over him even when he weakened her so.

Petyr’s right hand travelled even higher and cupped her private parts, and it was not a moan but a cry of surprise that came out of her. She thought she saw him smile in the dark but she could not know for sure. His deft fingers travelled over her smallclothes, finding the spots that excited her and made her breath fast and shallow, and before she knew it she was a mess, flushed, confused and aroused at the same time, her self-respect gone at the sound of her own low mewls. Though she was enjoying herself, she was quite at a loss as what to do. Their roles seemed quite reversed this time, and she was not the seductress any more, but the one seduced. She tried to move, do something that would give her agency, but she was pinned on the wall, her body limped with desire. Petyr was now undoing the laces of her smallclothes, and soon the thin, damp fabric was pooled at her feet. His knowing fingers slipped into her wet folds, his thumb finding the bundle of nerves which now seemed to control her existence. His rubs were soft, unhurried. He took his time to explore her, to find all the little spots and angles that made her squirm or mewl, and somehow this lack of haste made him appear more powerful in her mind. The heat between her legs was searing hot now, a wonderful pressure building on the spot Petyr was caressing so gently. He leaned in for a kiss again, and as he did so he slipped a finger inside her, making her moan loudly in his mouth. A second finger soon followed, and he started pumping them steadily and curling them inside of her to find that strange spot she had not imagined existed, making her nails dig deep in the skin of his neck. The pressure was now more terrible than wonderful, demanding her attention, demanding release, and Sansa bucked against Petyr’s hand, desperate for more friction. His movements became faster, and just on the moment she thought she would not be relieved of this wonderful torture, a wave of intense pleasure washed over her and a single, loud cry escaped her lips.

She stood slumped, her back against the wall, her heartbeats almost as loud as her breath. Petyr was breathing hard too, and he didn’t seem ready to stop. In the darkness, she felt his hands fumbling with the front laces of her dress. She wasn’t sure why, but she joined her trembling fingers with his, and together they untied the knots, loosening the fabric underneath. Her arms dropped to her sides, useless once again, but Petyr’s hands travelled up her torso, fingers spread wide as if he was trying to enclose all of her in his palms. And then, they found her breasts, cupping them with a gentleness that surprised her. Yet she realized, as his tender squeezes sent little shivers down her body, that she had known him to be cold and ruthless, but never cruel. His thumbs started caressing her nipples, making them pucker and harden, and she thought that under her own happy sighs she could hear his too. 

It was a horrible thing that they were doing, immoral and unladylike on her part, but in the darkness where she could not meet his gaze, it was easier to ignore these thoughts. She still thought that it was quite unfair that she was exposed so, her breasts and legs naked in the cold underground air, and him still fully dressed. Emboldened by the darkness her hands finally found a purpose and started unbuttoning his doublet. He did not pay much attention at first, busy as he was caressing her soft skin and pressing his neglected erection on her thigh (the thought of this decadence only making the heat inside her rise even faster than before). But when most of the buttons were finally undone, and her delicate fingers slipped under his undershirt, she felt him going suddenly stiff at her touch. She let her fingers trail on his chest, curious at his reaction, and soon enough, the smooth skin and sparse hair gave way to a different sort of sensation. She could not see him, but he had stopped breathing, and his heart pounded under the skin. Sansa smiled; she never thought that in the dark she would read him better than in the light. Her fingers explored the strange patch of skin, trying to follow its pattern. It was soft, but different to the touch than normal skin, and it felt like it was raised higher than the rest of it too. She followed its shape, trailing it all the way from his collarbone down to his navel, realizing in the process that it was a scar. She wanted to ask him about it, but she would hate to break this sacred silence now. Her fingers made circles around his navel where the scar ended, and the thought struck her that though she had let Petyr take her maidenhead less than a day ago, this felt far more intimate. 

She wondered if the darkness made him feel safer too, feeling his tense muscles relax slowly under her palms. She let her hands trail even further down, suddenly emboldened even more by the discovery of Petyr’s secret, and she finally had the pleasure of hearing a small moan from him when she cupped his parts. She felt his hand brush hers and for a moment she thought he might try and stop her, but instead he helped her undo his breeches’ laces, like she had helped him with hers. His manhood sprang out of its confines then, and some primal need or knowledge made Sansa grip it firmly, causing a strained groan to come out of Petyr. She run her palm on his length, enjoying the silky feel of the skin and how it moved with her moves, feeling more curious than scared. After a few experimental strokes, she knew that she had never been more in control of Petyr than she was now, and that made her feel elated, drunk with power.

With another groan that sent jolts through her stomach he moved closer again, making her remove her hand from its position of power. His manhood slipped between her folds instead, now dripping wet again, and they shared a common sigh at the contact. She wrapped her arms around him, now willing to be pinned hard on the wall and he complied. His chest was so close to hers now, that her nipples grazed on his skin and she felt his pulse joining hers. By then he was at her entrance, moving slowly but steadily, and she took a deep breath. It had hurt the first time, but not even remotely as much as she had feared. He was gentle now, even more so than before, and when he was buried to the hilt inside of her, she had the strange thought that somehow she was whole now, _complete._ He started moving slowly, giving her soft kisses on the lips, and for the first time she didn’t regret the sighs parting her lips, using them as an encouragement instead. His kisses became deeper and his rhythm a little faster, making her heart flutter with excitement again. Soon he had her in a state again, legs and arms wrapped around him possessively, fingers clutching on his hair, her mouth claiming his when she could stop moaning for a moment or two. She had enjoyed her first time more than she expected, but now that there was no endgame, no secret purpose, she could let herself go and enjoy the overwhelming sensations without anything holding her back. In the darkness sight was useless, but the rest of her senses were heightened. She could hear the moment their breaths syncronised, she could feel his heart beating the same song as hers, she could feel the heat of his skin in her fingertips. He was pumping in a steady but not frantic pace, his thrusts sending shivers of joy through her body, building that wondrous and terrible pressure again. And she welcomed each of his ventures in her warm darkness with enthusiasm, trying to take as much of him as she could, trying to make him hers so that she could be his in return, and nobody else’s. His thrusts became deeper, stronger, and they moaned in unison, the sound coming from somewhere deep within. She held him tight as the pressure was building to an unbearable degree, and as she reached her peak, her tongue moved on its own, invoking a word to guide her through the relentless waves of pleasure washing over her.

“Petyr!”

The sound echoed on the cold stones, on the ears of kings and lords long dead, but also on the ears of the man whom she felt more alive in her tight embrace than she had ever seen him look. To the sound of her voice crying his name with such desperation, he convulsed, finally finding his own relief inside of her. When she felt the hot sticky fluid being released, she smiled to herself noting how he didn’t try to move this time, and she found safety in his succumb to her will.

***

“Lady Sansa, do you take this man?” the flat, solemn voice of Roose Bolton pulled her out of her reverie. She was in the cold, dim-lit Godswood, ready to commit an act of treason to her family. Ramsay Bolton was looking at her intently, and she could feel the gaze of the northern lords on her back. At her side, Petyr was holding his breath.

She did not hesitate. 

“Yes. I take this man” she said with a clear, slightly tremulous voice. Her eyes glistened with unshed tears, and she knew that it was hard to tell if they were tears of joy or despair. She didn’t need to look at Petyr to see the pride and approval in his eyes. She gave the tiniest of squeezes at his hand as she left it and took a step forward to join Ramsay.

***

They had held hands as they stumbled in the dark, trying to make their way back to the world of the living. His touch was more tender now, and she thought that their fingers were linked in an uncommon act of intimacy. Soon they emerged in the gray daylight and their hands parted. She forced herself to look at him, already missing the safety of darkness. His face was unreadable, as she knew her own to be. They parted ways in silence, two strangers once again, content in the knowledge that the crypts would keep their secrets.


	2. A Feast

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's the second chapter, I hope you enjoy it!

He had followed her again in her descent in the dark resting place of her forefathers, but this time it had been her intention. In a few hours she was to be wed to the Bastard of Bolton, and there was no one else but Petyr Baelish to confide in.

“I don’t know if I can do this” she said without preamble, pacing between the stone statues of William Stark and Artos the Implacable. She looked up and saw a shadow pass over his face, as if he was displeased with her. But in the blink of an eye a benevolent expression had returned to his features.

“Of course you can do this, sweetling” he said in the same tone someone would use to explain to a child that, yes, birds can fly.

“I keep thinking of what happened to Lady Hornwood… Ramsay locked her away and starved her to death. Did you know she ate her own fingers? Who is to say that I won’t suffer the same fate? You are leaving again in a few days, how do you know they will treat me as well as they do now?” She asked, her steps echoing in the stone vaults. 

“You will not suffer the same fate as Lady Hornwood, Sansa” he said patiently, confidently. But she knew his lies to be said more easily than his truths.

“I think you have underestimated Ramsay, I _told_ you he is not like Joffrey-” she started saying testily, but Petyr interrupted her, holding her gently, but firmly by the arm and forcing her to stop in her tracks.

“I have not underestimated the Boltons. Not as much as you think. I can assure you, however, that they have underestimated you. I have seen how the Bolton boy looks at you now, like you are nothing more than your name. I know he’s wrong. You proved it in the Vale, you proved it again when I returned here. You are smarter than lady Hornwood, and you will be prepared for whatever comes.” His voice was calm, certain, and his eyes didn’t avoid hers. It was much like when he had talked to her on the way to Moat Cailin, convincing her to agree to this monstrous betrothal in order to avenge her family. 

“Prepared?” she asked suspiciously. So far Petyr had not mentioned anything more than trying to charm Ramsay and wait for Stannis to come.

“There has been… a change of plans” he said carefully. His hand left her arm and dived into one of the pockets of his dark green doublet. When it emerged again it was holding a wax candle similar to the tallow lit in his other hand. She thought he might light the new candle as well, but he only placed it wordlessly in her hands. She stared at him intently, not deigning to ask for an explanation. His tricks and secrets had started to tire her.

“As you know well, the original plan was to wait for Stannis to take over Winterfell, which could take many weeks. I admit that at the time I was not fully aware of the reputation your betrothed had built here in the North. It became apparent soon though, and it is one of the reasons why I returned so soon from the south. As I returned by ship, I had to make a stop at White Harbor, the seat of the Manderlys, which was quite fortunate because in my stay there, it transpired that the northern lords who bowed to Roose were quite upset at the idea of poor, honourable Ned Stark’s innocent daughter to be wed to such a monster like the Bastard. Many of them were thinking of turning on the Boltons, save you from your predicament and declare for you.”

“Are they – are they going to stop the wedding?” Sansa asked aghast.

“No. The truth is that they are divided. Some of them are certain that you are dragged into this against your will, but others are not so sure. Which is why you need to convince them during the wedding that you are utterly miserable to be used in such a way. Let them see you. Let them feel angry and ashamed of themselves for not protecting you, for not pledging their swords to you. If you do that, they will take the Boltons down for you. It works just as well, and perhaps even better for us.” Petyr was smiling his sinister smile as he unraveled his plots and machinations to her, and she couldn’t help but marvel for a moment at how easily he could change his plans to fit any given circumstances.

“And what use can a candle be to all this?” she asked just to ask something. Too many questions were forming in her head already, muddled and foggy for now. Something irked her. But the candle was there in her hand, smooth and slightly heavier than what she expected, and because it was corporeal, it made the question corporeal as well.

“Sometimes things are not what they appear to be, sweetling. A candle can hide more than wax inside it” Petyr said, his eyes glinting mischievously. “Keep it with you at all times, especially when you are alone with Ramsay. It is inconspicuous enough; you come so often in the crypts that no one will suspect anything if they see you carrying a candle with you. When the time is opportune, use it.”

“And how soon will the time be opportune?” she asked, trying to be patient. Petyr’s riddles weren’t very helpful.

“Should everything go well, tonight” he said calmly, and the glint in his eyes was not playful anymore.

***

The Great Hall of Winterfell was shaking with the shouts and raucous laughter of the northerners. Even the music was hard to hear over the clamour, and the atmosphere was thick with the smell of smoke, sweat and alcohol. The wine and ale were flowing generously and the long tables were heavy with meats, cheeses and loaves of fresh bread. Wyman Manderly had eaten an entire suckling pig, and lord Ryswell had somehow managed to already drink himself to sleep, after singing The Bear and the Maiden Fair at the top of his lungs. Petyr was making Fat Walda blush and giggle at the end of the high table. It seemed that only Sansa and Roose Bolton were not partaking to the general mirth of the feast. They were seated next to each other, Ramsay on Sansa’s other side, but neither of the Boltons was paying attention to her. Roose was drinking his hippocras quietly, his dead eyes scanning the vast room. Ramsay was drinking and laughing with his men-at-arms, telling each other obscene jokes and throwing bones at his girls. He seemed particularly amused when Damon Dance-for-Me irritated Red Jeyne and she bit his ankle. Damon had to leave the hall to have his leg examined by the maester, but Sansa noticed how he didn’t complain once about what the dog did. Sansa was looking around despondently in case any of the lords still felt uncertain about her unhappiness, hardly touching her food and taking very small sips of spiced wine. It wasn’t a difficult part to play, as she already felt very nervous. From time to time, her hand would slip in her pocket and her fingers would scratch the soft wax off the candle.

“Will my dear niece do me the honour to dance with me?” Petyr asked with his usual smirk later in the night. 

She wiped the wax off her fingers hastily and looked at Ramsay expecting his permission, but he was too busy tormenting one of the serving girls. Roose nodded curtly however and she rose from the table to join Petyr at the makeshift dancefloor next to the musicians. There were too many men and too few women in the feast, and the men were more interested in drinking and pinching the bottoms of the serving girls, but there had been those few who ventured to take a twirl. Lady Dustin had danced with Harwood Stout, and Fat Walda had danced with all her Frey cousins. Almost double in size from the pregnancy, she was a sight to see.

“Are you enjoying yourself?” Petyr asked pleasantly as he put one hand on her back and held her own hand with the other. His fingers felt the wax flakes that had remained on her hand and he raised an eyebrow, but said nothing on the matter.

“As much as a new bride can enjoy herself without worrying too much” Sansa said, after thinking what would be the safest thing to say. The music was loud, but she didn’t want to risk it. 

She felt Petyr’s hand pressing the small of her back, bringing her a little closer to him. He was a better dancer than she had expected, and she wondered if he had wanted to dance with her at all those balls in King’s Landing. They danced in comfortable silence for a while and though she was a little cross with him still, it did not escape her how delicate his touch was and how gently he was leading her steps.

“You have been marvelous, Sansa” he said in one breath when the steps of the dance brought them closer together. He didn’t have to lower his head, because as she realised for the first time since he had returned to Winterfell, now they were of the same height. Despite everything, the thought amused her.

“All the lords are furious at the Boltons and are ready to rally at your side. It will be done, tonight” he said quickly at the next opportunity, answering the question her eyes posed.

*** 

“A Red Wedding” Sansa said breathlessly, the blood running fast in her veins as if it had found a new purpose. It was truly poetic. Her enemies dead, betrayed the same way they had betrayed her family. It was… beautiful, in a twisted way. Over the flame of his candle, Petyr smiled approvingly, no doubt sharing her thoughts.

“It will be done when you and Ramsay leave for the bedding, and the Boltons and Freys are already drunk. It should be easy, they are outnumbered. All you have to do-”

“Wait” she said, and her voice sounded stern in the cold, heavy air of the crypts. “You have known this... since before you returned. It was planned while you were at White Harbor, correct?” she asked shrewdly.

“Yes” Petyr replied, and she could see his eyebrow rise even when it _didn’t_.

“You have known this – and you told me nothing! You let me think I would spend weeks, even months perhaps, alone here, married to Ramsay! You let me – What you let me do at the Godswood-” she choked, breathing hard, the anger rising fast inside her. He had _deceived_ her, even when she had done her best to ensure his loyalty. She felt hot tears coming to her eyes, but she held them back with all her might, her face remaining a mask of cold anger. She was furious at him, but she was mostly furious at herself for trusting him when she knew him to be anything but trustworthy. Her breath was coming out hard, as if her lungs were clutched by an iron fist, and her heart was beating irregularly and she was choking, choking, her own foolishness was making her choke-

_“Sansa”_

It was a single word, only a name, but the way it was spoken could not escape her, even in the state she was. She felt there was more honesty in this word than all the words he had ever rolled on his tongue.

“Listen to me. It was not safe to tell you anything sooner. Do not forget that nothing is decided yet. It is up to you to take the lords to your side. It is up to you to change the course of things. If it doesn’t go this way, what happened in the Godswood will not be for nothing. It was a clever thing to do.” He spoke quietly, but intently, his eyes fixed on hers. She hated him when he was right, when he had an answer for everything.

She tried to breathe normally again and calm down, arranging her features to become indiscernible again. She had decided to play the game, and it would not do to falter at every twist and turn.

“What do I have to do, should the lords side with me?” she asked in an even voice.

“Kill your husband”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ta-daaa! Don't we all wish Petyr had said those words in the show!  
> I know I said this chapter would be the final one, but it got a bit too big and I decided to break it down. The third one is definitely the last one, it's already written and will be posted soon. :)


	3. Wedding Night

She was dancing the last few notes of the song with Petyr when suddenly Ramsay rose from the table, his girls barking excitedly around him.

“Enough of this boring nonsense, my lady was wedded and now she must be bedded!” he shouted to be heard over the cacophony of music and laughter.

Sansa took a deep breath, feeling only the slightest hint of panic. She could feel the weight of the candle in one of the pockets of her dress. Petyr gave her arm a reassuring squeeze, and she realized that she was as ready for what was to come as she would ever be. She made sure she looked terrified and she had enough time to see some faces in the hall going grim behind their cups, some smiles become too forced, before she was swept by Ramsay’s singing men, his dogs jumping and barking around them. They were half-carried, half-shoved out of the hall with songs and laughs and all too soon they had reached Ramsay’s chambers.

Once inside his chamber, Sansa realized that she had never spent any time alone with him. She stood quietly near the door, looking shy and submissive, and hoping that this was what Ramsay wanted to see. Outside Ramsay’s men were singing lewd songs, as tradition demanded. They would leave soon though.

“My father tells me you’re a virgin” Ramsay said after looking at her intently for a few moments. “Are you really a virgin, wife?”

“Yes my lord” Sansa said in a whisper, thoughts of Petyr’s eyes dark with lust filling her mind. 

“Do you lie? Wives should not lie to their husbands, you know” he said with the subtlest hint of threat in his voice, his eyes never leaving her.

“I don’t lie my lord. It is not right for a lady to give herself to someone before her wedding night” Sansa replied, a blush creeping on her cheeks to complete the picture of the perfect little lady she was.

“Very true. But do you know what happens between men and women, Sansa?” he asked and poured himself a cup of wine. The way he said her name maid her skin crawl.

“A- a little” she stammered, her blush becoming deeper. She had given herself to a man freely again and again, but talking about such things with Ramsay was making her extremely uncomfortable.

“Are you wet for me, Sansa?” he asked, his stare relentless.

“My lord?” She could not imagine a highborn lady to have any other reaction than this to such a question.

“Because if you are not, I can bring my dogs and make you wet for me” he said with a leer.

“No my lord” she said quickly, ignoring the bile rising in her throat.

“Strip yourself” he said coldly.

She started unbuttoning her wedding dress, wondering how many other girls had had an experience like this on their wedding night. Her fingers were trembling a little, but it only added to the picture she was painting.

“You are slow. And you are boring. I haven’t even fucked you yet and you are already boring. Perhaps I should give you to my men already, or to my girls. Do you want to be one of my girls, Sansa?”

“My lord, please! I only want to be a good wife to you, to be strong so that I can give you strong, trueborn heirs to the Dreadfort and to Winterfell. Please.” She implored, her eyes wide and innocent.

She knew from the look in his eyes that she had said the magic word, the one thing that could catch his attention. She had seen his displeasure when his father had announced Walda’s pregnancy, she had heard the hushed fights between them. A bastard was a bastard even with a royal decree which said otherwise and deep down, Ramsay would always feel a Snow and not a Bolton.

“What do I need heirs for? My father might choose the fat sow’s runt over me for all I know” he spat.

“Who is to say that the child will ever be born? Or that it will survive its infancy? The north is such a harsh place to be born…” Sansa said pointedly, and took the liberty of sitting on the edge of the bed, half undressed as she was. Her hand disappeared in the folds of her dress, seeking the strange security a piece of wax could provide.

There was a pause. Ramsay was still looking at her intently, but it was an entirely different look this time. She was suddenly acutely aware of the fact that there were no more songs heard from the other side of the door.

“Perhaps you are not as boring as I thought. Keep undressing.”

Sansa did not move, suddenly hesitant. She was glad that she was spared the fate to be thrown to his dogs, and she had almost convinced herself, ever since her last visit to the crypts, that in the grand scheme of things, to be taken by Ramsay was a small price to pay for the pleasure of taking his life. But as the Bastard approached her, undoing the laces of his breeches and drinking her frame hungrily, she found herself scratching at the candle in her pocket forcefully.

***

Petyr’s last words were still echoing in her head, making her heart swell with excitement. _Kill your husband._

“You’ve always told me to keep my hands clean” she noted, trying to discern the look on his face even though it was half-hidden in the shadows.

“Indeed. It is a good rule to live by in the southern kingdoms, where people love plotting and nothing is as it seems. But I gather that here in the North, a more… direct approach would be appreciated”

Once again, he was right. Killing Ramsay with her own hands would earn her the respect of her lords and not just their pity.

“You were not present at Joffrey’s wedding. Isn’t it a risk to be here when all hell breaks loose?” she asked curiously. Petyr was not the kind of person to expose himself in danger so willingly, or to have his name so easily connected with anyone’s deeds.

“I think you will agree, Sansa, that some risks are worth taking” he said in a low voice.

She was still angry at him, but she could not ignore the meaning of his words. Besides, the thought of killing Ramsay thrilled her, her heart singing a song of revenge, and she felt like it was a gift from him to her. She kissed him then deep and hard, and she didn’t know if it was to thank him or because she wanted to feel alive one last time before they risked everything. 

There was the same urgency this time as the first time, the same hasty passion. Petyr was rough, possessive, claiming her lips ferociously, his tongue and hands trailing her skin as if he was marking his territory. Perhaps he was, she thought as her nails were grazing his chest and he was breathing heavily in her messy hair. Perhaps it was another way to remind her where her allegiance lay, or perhaps he had finally realized he hated the idea of sharing her with another man. And yet, despite his own possessiveness he must have sensed her own need for control before she submitted to someone else, because he let her take charge and do what she wanted. And she enjoyed this dark kind of power, even more than she enjoyed the feel of his skin against her skin, more than his pulse beating under hers, perhaps even more than the completeness that she felt when he filled her so perfectly. They held on each other tightly, and Sansa let her cries grow loud this time. She heard his cries join hers, and she was content in the knowledge that even if she died, her voice would still echo here in the dark, more lively than in the world of the living.

*** 

“I said, _undress_ ”

Ramsay’s eyes were cold, unfeeling. She didn’t move.

When he pushed her down on the bed there was no lust in his gaze, only cruelty. One hand was pinning her down by the shoulder, the other tearing away her dress. His knee forced her legs apart, and she thought of Petyr, how powerful she had felt when she had straddled him that first time under the Heart Tree and how surprised she was to find out that she enjoyed that, that she enjoyed _him_. In a sudden clarity of mind, she knew with absolute certainty that she didn’t want this memory to be marred in such a way, she didn’t want to go through the rest of her life trying to forget what it’s like to be with a man.

Ramsay’s hand was at her smallclothes now, ripping the thin fabric, and she was clutching the candle tightly, forcing the wax to break and fall apart, her skin finally meeting something cold and sharp. It wasn’t safe, but she didn’t care anymore. She would not submit herself to him. She gripped the thin blade as Ramsay’s hand pushed her legs further apart, and she waited, her breath even, her hand steady. She had never imagined the thought of killing someone could make her so calm. 

When he leaned closer to enter her, she did not hesitate. With one steady, swift move, the blade sliced through Ramsay’s throat with ease. Hot blood started spurting on her face, momentarily blinding her. She heard him make an ugly, gurgling sound, and felt his hands trying to get a grip of her neck. She didn’t know what came over her, but she started stabbing him furiously on the chest and on the abdomen, taking out on him all the fear and despair that had been filling her heart these last two years. Every stab was revenge for her lady mother, for Robb and Arya, for Rickon and Bran, for all the good men of Winterfell. She stopped only when her hands were so bloody that the blade was slipping through them, and Ramsay had collapsed on the floor.

“You will never touch me, Bastard” she whispered, her voice dripping poison, and watched as his eyes dimmed, finally looking exactly like his father’s.

Sometime later, from somewhere outside the window she thought she heard the faint clang of weapons and then, more distinctly the cries “Stark, Stark!” and “Winterfell!”

***

“You have come so far, Sansa” he said softly, approvingly as he helped her make herself presentable again, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “You have come so far”

***

It was the break of dawn when the clamour of battle had died down and Hother Whoresbane brought down Ramsay’s door with Robett Glover on his tow. Their looks changed from surprise to awe when they saw Ramsay’s lifeless body sprawled on the floor and her drenched in blood, the fatal blade still in her hands. And then, they _kneeled_.

Her skin tingled in the cold morning air when she came out in the courtyard. Her lords were all there, bloody and bruised but alive. The dead bodies of Boltons and Freys lay still where they had fallen. In the harsh gray light their blood looked more black than red, Sansa noted with mild interest. And then she saw, in the middle of the circle her lords had formed, Roose Bolton tied and on his knees, his nose bleeding profusely.

Her lords looked at her with curiosity as she stepped silently forward.

“Lord Bolton” she said with a clear, steady voice. “This is for you”

On this, Hother Umber threw Ramsay’s head, which landed in front of his father. Roose’s face twitched, but his eyes remained dead and he said nothing.

“You betrayed my family. My mother and brother are dead because of you. My other brothers are dead because of your bastard. I killed your son. I will make sure that your unborn child will never learn anything about you. I will raze the Dreadfort to the ground, and the name of Bolton will never again be heard in the North” she told Roose coldly, her eyes fixed on his.

Then she turned to her lords who were still looking at her curiously.

“Lord Bolton betrayed his liege lord and king, my brother Robb Stark, and for this he must die” she said in a loud, commanding voice. She had never spoken such words before, but in this moment she felt her mouth was made to say them. “My lord father had always said that the man who passes the sentence must also swing the sword, and this is what I will do. I killed the Bastard of Bolton, and now I will kill the father too, for all his crimes against the North.”

She turned to Robett Glover, and he gave her his dagger wordlessly. He had already seen what she could do with a blade. She knew a sword would be more impressive, but she wasn’t strong enough to wield one. It didn’t matter; the result would be the same.

“The North remembers!” she cried and with another decisive and swift movement she slit Roose Bolton’s throat, his warm blood spattering on her face and her once white wedding dress.

For a moment there was only the thud of Roose’s lifeless body slumping on the cold stones. And then, the courtyard erupted with the cries of hundreds of men.

“Stark! Stark!” and “The North remembers!” was what most of the lords were shouting, but among them, another cry came and ruled over them. “Sansa Stark! Sansa Stark!”

She was surrounded by a sea of jubilant faces, their faith and devotion suddenly clear under the blood and bruises. She had evoked their pity last night, but she had gained their respect this morning and she knew now that it wouldn’t matter how long it would take for Stannis to arrive or what title he would give her when she declared for him. For the northerners, she would be the Queen in the North, their unquestioned leader. And though she felt elated, a wild feeling of joy and triumph surging through her, there was no surprise there. She felt at home in their midst, their victorious cries making her feel more powerful than she had ever been, as if she was always meant to do this.

She finally spotted Petyr in the crowd, looking clean and composed as always. Even from a distance she could see the unusual warmth of his smile, a look of admiration in his eyes that she had never seen before. She couldn’t resist giving him her most regal smile and saw the usual smirk return on his face. She wondered if he knew how much he had done for her just by showing her her true strength, and something like affection tugged on her heart. His motives were far from being altruistic, she knew, but it didn’t matter. She was alive and intact, her family was avenged, and she was home.

If there was such a thing as destiny, she had fulfilled hers. She would be the master of her own fate now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this was it! Thank you for taking the time to read this, and I hope you enjoyed reading this story as much as I enjoyed writing it! :)

**Author's Note:**

> Ehm. I'm still quite new to writing sexy stuff. So, hopefully it worked for you!  
> This is going to be a two-part story by the way, and I'll try to post the second and final chapter soon.  
> Any thoughts so far are much appreciated :)


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